Kiesha'Ra Chronicles: The Dancer
by LaChasseresse
Summary: Centuries have passed since the Golden Age of the shape-shifters, and humans blissfully unaware of the existence of these once-proud peoples have become the dominant race, and only a select few are allowed to mingle with the remaining shape-shifters.


Nemain let out a low breath and tugged her ragged cloak around her shoulders. It was several shades of desert—tan, brown, yellow—and blended well with the environment around her, which was one good thing. She needed to blend until they brought out the child.

She was on a job that she had been especially sought to complete. She was a very opinionated woman, who saw any acts against women or children as particularly heinous, and took special offense at them. That was why she had been called for this particular job. Because they knew she'd throw enough of herself into it to make sure it all went right.

The girl she would be stepping up on behalf of today was, like herself, of a mixed heritage. The girl's mother was one of the last remaining members of a royal house in their line, and because she was married she was unable to return to the estate and take her place as head. Thus the responsibility of matriarch of the line fell to the only daughter—for though she had been raised in a society that valued its men over its women; the girl was the heiress to a line that prided its matriarchs.

Of course, there was one small problem.

The girl's half brother had been accused of having sexual relations with the wife of a prevalent member of the wealthy side of the community, and though he had denied it, the Elders had not believed him. They had declared that he be punished. Or rather that his sister be punished for his crimes. She would, as was a custom in this base and brutish society, be publicly raped.

Nemain squeezed her hand into a fist so tight she felt her claw-like nails digging into her flesh. The girl, whose name was Mehay, was fourteen years old and innocent as a flower. She loved to tell stories and paint, and she loved to laugh. Nemain gritted her teeth as she thought of the picture that had been in the girl's file: her hair fluttering in the wind as she wheeled about in a secluded flower garden, her mouth spread wide in a smile that was as carefree and pure as the girl's heart. She felt a disgusted growl stir in her throat as she slipped unnoticed to the front of the crowd, hunched and covered so she gave the impression of a decrepit old woman.

_These aren't people_, she thought as she looked at the crowd that had gathered, _They're monsters_. There were women, both pale with fright and radiant with malicious ill-humor; and men, both terrified for their own daughters or wives, and those who looked as if they were ready to indulge themselves to the terrible event about to take place. Nemain felt disgusted, and shifted slightly, torn between the need to slaughter those who were deriving some joy from the event and sick at the thought of what would happen if she failed.

If Nemain failed, she'd never forgive herself. Furthermore, she'd probably throw herself upon the mercy of the desert around them. She grimaced, furrowing her brow and steeling herself to do all that was necessary to protect the Young Lady Mehay.

The crowd began to jeer and hiss and boo as a ragged figure was brought out by the sons of the village Elders—those who would be doing the punishing. Nemain's lip curled as she bared her teeth. The small, hunched form of the girl they held bore little resemblance to the photo she had been given. Her eyes held no warm glow, her hair was tangled and matted, and her body was bruised and broken, angry red welts burned across her warm brown skin beneath the ropes with which she was bound. She sobbed instead of smiling, pleading for mercy and begging for forgiveness for her brother's trespasses. The Elders' sons threw her upon a stone dais and she lay quivering beneath their towering selves. Nemain knew it was time to move.

She shuffled forward, limping slightly with the attempt to keep her ruse true, and stopped in the opening the crowd had left so that the dais may be seen. The air was still, and the only sound was the dull thud of Nemain's feet on the street. Everyone watched wondering what the mad old woman was going to do.

"Get out of here, hag," one of the Elder's sons spat.

"Let her go," Nemain's voice was soft, hardly above a whisper.

"She's being punished for her brother's crimes," the other son said loudly. "Maybe next time the boy will think before taking what doesn't belong to him."

Nemain had had quite enough of that attitude. She stood tall, sweeping an arm back and whipping the tattered cloak off of her body. It flew away in a sudden violent wind that pushed clouds over the sun, casting the world into a world of gray. Nemain burned in their eyes, her skin pale as death and her hair dyed red as blood. She wore a black, sleeveless turtleneck, and gloves that bared her fingers and shoulders, but covered the rest of her arms. Comfortable jeans stretched themselves tightly over her well-muscled legs and crawled into high-heeled boots.

"Who are you?" the men asked in outrage and fear.

"Stand aside. I claim this child in the name of her estate," Nemain said sternly, knowing they wouldn't listen and hating the formality that hung about her job. Though, she admitted, it did give a dramatic flare to things, now and then.

"Someone get this bitch out of here!" one the of the sons cried, motioning for a man to come and claim Nemain.

Nemain smirked and moved ever-so-slightly as the man approached. In an instant she was flying through the air in a spectacular back-flip, planting her heels between the man's shoulder-blades and ricocheting off of him, bouncing off her hands and landing on the dais behind the girl.

"I won't let them hurt you," she whispered, wrapping her arms around the girl's shoulders. "I promise."

The sons ran at Nemain, guns drawn from only they knew where. Nemain stood tall, striding away from Mehay and standing before them.

"Will you shoot me?" she asked. "I should very much like that. It would be interesting to see what my Order does to the cowards who rape children and shoot their favorite witch."

A ripple ran through the crowd. Nemain knew that these people remembered old legends and tales. A witch was a feared element in the eyes of the Elders, and hopefully she could avoid hurting anyone by admitting publicly that she practiced the Craft.

"Witch?" one of the sons laughed. "What do you think we are, children?"

"Compared to what?" Nemain asked, lifting her chin and pursing her lips in a challenge. The man stepped forward, pressing his gun against her pursed lips.

"I'm not afraid of a nutcase who thinks she's a witch," he said in a low voice. "Now stand aside or I'll blow your scrambled little brain all over that bitch's face before I fuck her."

Nemain smirked and clamped her teeth around the barrel of the gun. The man looked unsettled but cocked the gun anyway.

"I mean it," he warned. "I'll shoot."

Nemain smirked, twisting her head back and pulling the gun away from his hand pulling it from her mouth, pressing it against his temple.

"If I merely thought I was a witch," she said softly. "Would I be able to do this?"

She snapped her fingers and the other Elder's son cried out in shock as he moved against his will, pressing the barrel of his own gun against the head of his comrade.

"What are you doing?" the first man yelled.

"I can't help it!" his friend replied. "I can't move it! It's not me, I swear!"

Nemain's smirk widened and the man cocked the gun. She stood, shoving the first gun into her belt and striding toward Mehay. She produced a small knife and cut the bonds that held her, then helped her stand.

"I warned you," Nemain said stoically, leading the girl off the dais.

"You there!" a voice rang out. She looked up to see an old man flanked by three other old men who were in turn flanked by a large group of men with guns.

"You're the Elders I expect?" Nemain held Mehay against her. "I am taking this girl and ordering that forthwith all spectacles of punishment berating and harming women and children in this manner be ceased."

"Who are you to order that of our people?" the foremost man asked tersely, his eyes flickering to the boy on the ground. Nemain cocked her head and looked at him as if he'd in some way asked her to state the obvious.

"Why, I'm the girl holding a gun to your son's head," she said and raised a hand. The man with the gun pressed the barrel hard against his friend's skull. The man swallowed and looked Nemain in the eye.

"You cannot change our traditions," the man said.

Nemain smiled at him.

"No, but I can give every woman in this village the knowledge I possess of magicks that will protect them in the way I now protect Mehay," she promised. It was a lie: she could not pass her knowledge of magick onto every woman present, but they didn't know that. "Come now, Elder. You're old enough to know the legends of dealing with witches. Surely you aren't stupid enough to incite my wrath?"

The man's eyes darted to his son. He snarled his reply.

"Take that bitch out of here and never return," he said. Nemain withdrew the gun she'd taken from her belt and pushed it into the pinned man's hand, then flicked her wrist, bringing them both into a standing position and having them put their guns in each other's mouths.

"Try to stop me," she warned the crowd. "Try to shoot us or belay us in any way, and these two will not only die, but I will personally trap their souls as my servants for all of eternity. And I assure you, it will not be a pleasant service to be in."

And with that Nemain led Mehay out of the square. The crowd parted, there eyes filled to bursting with fear. Once outside of town, Nemain knelt, looking Mehay in the eyes.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"You should not have come," the girl shook her head. "They'll beat my brother. Probably kill him."

"Darling, your family was moved out of the village while I distracted everyone. Your father and brother will be fine—they've been moved to a secure city location and given new identities. Your mother is waiting to welcome us at the manor."

Mehay looked confused.

"Manor?"

"Yes. You are the heiress to a noble line of Egyptian shape-shifters. You are, in the oldest tongue of the shape-shifters, Lady Mehay Cobriana sh'm'a Sakkri. The last matriarch of the Royal line and the future-dancers. Your name—Mehay—is the name of the chaos of futures only you can see. The _sakkri_ is the name of the dance."

"Dance?" Mehay looked confused.

"Yes," Nemain said. "You can dance futures. Dance patterns that will allow you to glimpse them. And though your blood is not pure, you are the last heiress."

"My mother…?"

"Lady Keyi cannot act as the priestess of Anhamirak, the god of passion and serpents, as once she did. The condition that comes with the title of priestess of Anhamirak and the _sakkri_ is that once you produce an heiress, you no longer possess the ability to touch the infinite futures," Nemain explained. She'd learned to dance from the serpents, and when the serpents teach, they teach the lore as well. "Your mother and yourself, however, both possess the demi-form of your ancestors. The old royals—the Cobriana—could exchange their human forms for those of the black cobra. Though you can no longer change fully into a serpent, you can still summon the black scales that prove your heritage. And if those are not enough, then you at least have the Cobriana eyes."

"Who are you?" Mehay asked as Nemain led her a little farther into the desert.

"Me? I'm just a girl who works for the Higher Races," Nemain said vaguely. "You know: fetch my heiress, pick up my dry-cleaning, get me coffee, et cetera."

"Are you really a witch?"

"Oh yes," Nemain said. "Which reminds me that I should probably let those idiots go now."

"You won't kill them?"

"No. They're not worth staining my hands over."

Nemain snapped her fingers and felt the drain on her energy break as she released the spell she'd thrown at the Elders' sons. She slumped slightly against Mehay but forced herself to push on.

"So, Lady Mehay," she asked. "Have you ever wondered what being an Egyptian princess is like?"

The girl looked at her as if she'd asked if she had ever wondered what being a goat was like.

"No? I have," Nemain said. "I've seen the noble houses. It's not so much a palace as a great manor. You'll have some cousins here, Mehay. I've met them—they're dancers too—and I think you'll like them. They'll teach you everything they know. And not just dances of the Serpents. Oh, no, they know many dances. Especially those of the falcons. There was one royal—she was queen for a day—named Hai Cobriana shm'Ahnmik. She was a cross of falcon and cobra blood. She danced the most powerful _sakkri_ ever seen. Even stronger than her cousin Oliza Shardae Cobriana. Oliza was a wyvern—a hawk and a cobra—and actually gave up her position as queen so she could be with her lover—a beautiful wolf named Betia."

"These sound like old stories," Mehay said doubtfully. Nemain held her hand, ignoring the comment because she knew she was about to prove it futile.

"You may want to close your eyes," she said. "There's usually a rather bright flash of light here."

And with that she stepped through one of the four portals that adorned the ley-lines of the Old World. These lines of hyper-charged energy gave anyone and everyone with the knowledge access to the power to move to any destination they chose. Luckly for Nemain and Mehay, they weren't moving overly far.

It was over in the blink of an eye; the bright light, the pressure on the body, the absence of self-knowledge. When they arrived, Mehay stumbled and Nemain reached out, holding her up. Mehay's eyes grew wide when she saw what lay before her.

"Welcome to the Cobriana royal house, Lady Mehay," Nemain said proudly. "I'll show you in, and your mother will take up explaining from there."

Nemain led the way and met Mehay's mother, Lady Keyi Cobriana, in the entrance hall. The girl ran to her mother and the two embraced for a long moment. Nemain felt a momentary pang of grief for the family she had not seen in almost three years, but pushed it away and stood tall.

"Lady Keyi," she said and bowed formally. "I have explained briefly her name and origin. I told her a paraphrased tale of Ladies Hai and Oliza. I shall leave the rest in your hands."

"Your payment!" the woman tried to stop her.

"It is fine, Lady Keyi," Nemain said stiffly, acting more like a hawk than a snake. "Enjoy your time with Lady Mehay. Send my payment to the Nest—I'll be staying there for a few days."

Keyi smiled. "Thank you. I knew I was right to ask the dancer's who they recommended outside the Serpents."

"I am honored," Nemain said, bowing to hide the blush. She had been living a life that was touched by the Higher Races—things that were more than merely human—for almost six years. She had met vampires, sirens, demons, faeries, shape-shifters, and the like all in the brief span between her nineteenth and twenty-fifth birthdays, and she knew the only reason she was tolerated was because of her willingness to embrace anything and everything she could be taught. That, and the drop of fey blood in her veins. "I had better be going. There is much to do for the two of you. Anhamirak's blessing upon the two of you."

"And you, Dancer," Keyi said proudly. "You are welcome in the Cobriana house any time, day or night."

"I thank you, Lady Keyi. Farewell, Lady Mehay," Nemain excused herself, her heart racing. _Dancer_. She was honored at the thought, but no one who was not in the least bit Serpent could possibly be given the title of Dancer. They may have taught her, they may have recommended her, and they may allow her to sleep in the Dancers Nest, but the traditions of the dancers was not lightly overthrown for the sake of one scale-less witch just because she could shake her hips a little.

"Welcome back, Nemain!" a voice haled her as she entered the Nest. "How did it go?"

"The Lady Mehay has been brought to the Cobriana house," Nemain said wearily. "And I desperately need a drink and some rest."

"What happened? Get in a fight?" the man that had haled her, a Serpent named Sade slipped beside her as she sank onto one of the many cushions that lined the floor around the stage.

"No," she said. "I tried to avoid one." She explained about manipulating the movements of the men and about the threats to the Elders about killing their sons.

"Wow, am I glad I'm not you," Sade said and handed her a bottle of Serpent wine—a special concoction that put fire into a dancer's steps and boosted the morale of weary witches. "I must say, though, that I am glad you were able to save the princess. It's been too long we've had a steward in place of the proper royalty."

"I believe you," Nemain said. "Lady Keyi seemed glad to have returned."

"I'm sure she was. I still don't get how she fell for a human," Sade shook his head. "No offense, of course."

"Oh, of course," Nemain rolled her eyes and flopped onto the cushion she'd claimed.

"It's true. You're not like most humans. You're an extremely powerful witch and you've got—what?—one sixteenth fey blood in you?" Sade asked and lay back beside her.

"One measly drop of faerie blood doesn't make me more than human," Nemain shook her head. "And honestly, I'm _not_ all that powerful as a witch either. I just don't really belong anywhere, so I go where I'm tolerated."

Sade wrapped an arm around her and she leaned against him, something she would not have done if she had not spent a year among the shape-shifters.

Nemain knew, however, that Serpents were a touchy-feely people, not shy about comforting one another. She expected it, and honestly sometimes needed it. If she needed a hug, a step into the Dancers Nest and a proclamation that she was having a bad day would end with her wrapped in a dozen peoples' arms. She knew that Serpents saw comfort in touch and warmth, and that though they were sometimes a bit loose with their kisses, they respected her need for a certain distance. Their efforts at Wyvern's Court had taught them that. No one—not even Sade—had ever tried to kiss her or make her uncomfortable in any way. They knew she wanted a mate—and that some day she hoped to be able to bring that mate to the Nest and dance for him as was Serpent tradition—but they also knew that she would not find her mate in their Nest, nor would he be a Serpent.

"You know you can stay as long as you like," Sade said quietly. "You're an honorary Serpent, and as much a dancer as any of us, even if you are human."

Nemain sighed and hugged Sade tightly, swallowing her sobs. Though Sade was hardly three years older than she, he was her mentor, the one who had taught her all manner of blade dances and fire dances. She had even been invited to the ceremony when he danced for his mate, a handsome Serpent named Ven. She'd watched in awe as the two men danced with a verve she wondered if she could ever match.

"What would I have done if I had never stumbled in here in the first place?" she asked quietly. It had been an accident, this adoption into the Serpents' world. She'd been travelling on her way to visit someone on behalf of an elderly witch that had lived in her hometown, when she'd been caught in a typhoon. She'd been blown into a ravine, and rendered unconscious, and somehow the ley-line beneath the ravine had sent her to Egypt, to the Serpents' lands. She had stumbled, injured and weary into the first building she'd seen—the Nest. The dancers had nursed her back to health, and started to teach her basic dance steps. They found her quite agreeable—funny, smart, saucy—as much like them as if she'd been born with scales of her own.

"You'd have died at the bottom of a ravine, of course," Sade said. "But we're glad Anhamirak saw fit to bestow you to us. Even if you don't have scales, I think you're a Serpent at heart."

"Everyone keeps saying that," Nemain said softly. "But it's the scales that count. I don't have claws or fur or feathers or anything. Nada. I can't be a Serpent or a real dancer even. You can teach me anything you want, but I can't _learn_ scales, Sade. I can't practice them."

"Someday perhaps Anhamirak will bless you with them as he did our ancestors," the snake said as she drifted into sleep.

"I wish," she muttered before blackness took her.


End file.
